


Purge Yourself of Poison

by DuilinofGondolin



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Friendship, Gen, M/M, Sickfic, violent physical illness
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-09-16
Updated: 2013-09-16
Packaged: 2017-12-26 18:50:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,450
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/969069
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DuilinofGondolin/pseuds/DuilinofGondolin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A strange man with intent to harm Enjolras appears in the Cafe Musain, but ends up harming Courfeyrac instead. Grantaire, the only one to realize that the man is up to no good, is on his own to help Courfeyrac and keep his friends safe. Violent physical illness, so if you are squeamish about that sort of thing, be warned. Sickfic in a way. Grantaire/Coureyrac friendship, Enjolras/Grantaire, eventual Combeferre/Courfeyrac.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Purge Yourself of Poison

**Author's Note:**

> Hi everyone! This is my first fic ever on here, but I've lurked about this fandom for quite a while :) I really hope you like it! Feedback is always appreciated, suggestions, anything! Thank you so much for reading!

Grantaire scowled at the man in the corner. 

The man—imposing, brutish, unfamiliar—had been there for far too long, far longer than he or any of his friends had been there. It was still early for their meeting; only the slightly over-zealous trio was gathered around the table across the room: brilliant Combeferre, cheerful Courfeyrac, and fiery Enjolras. The others had yet to show up. 

Grantaire was always early to the Café Musain. He loved to be the first one to see Enjolras’s beautiful eyes when he walked through the door, his cheeks colored pink from the cold outside, destination set and locked on the table in the corner, where he’d drop a pile of pamphlets, stand up straight and tall, and catch Grantaire’s gaze with a small nod of hello. It was this moment, this tiny interaction, that made Grantaire the happiest he would be all day. 

Today, though, this strange man had been there before him, and he had taken a table in the opposite corner and had not moved to leave. The man watched his friends with an unsettling, unblinking stare from the moment each of them walked through the door, nodding at Combeferre, who had looked away out of shyness, blinking knowingly at Courfeyrac, who had looked confused, and paying special attention to Enjolras, who had not noticed him at all. 

It was apparent to Grantaire that his friends did not recognize the man, and though they seemed unfazed by the new patron, he was determined to find out what his intentions were. Grantaire had always been fiercely protective of the Amis, like a mother wolf, really, and as such, he seemed to have a certain instinct when it came to those who were less than sympathetic to the cause that made his friends’ chests swell with pride and passion, those who would seek to harm any and all of them for their audacity. 

Grantaire took a long swig of wine before pushing his chair back and getting up from his table, moving to slowly approach the man in the corner without arousing the suspicion of his friends or any other patrons. The stranger’s eyes were still fixed on Enjolras, and he hardly noticed Grantaire until he somewhat-drunkenly pulled the second chair out from under the table, his flushed face stern and hard as stone, and sat himself down in the seat across from him. He folded his hands in front of him, cleared his throat, and glared sharply, hoping to god he looked intimidating. The man turned to him.

“Can I help you?”

“Why are you watching him?” Grantaire asked indignantly. He was met by a shocked silence.

“I am not the only one here who is watching him,” the man protested, looking confused. “Many people come to hear him speak.”

“No. You are staring at him and I don’t like it. I don’t trust you,” Grantaire growled. He wondered if he was making a rash mistake. But this man…something about him was not right. Not the way he watched Enjolras. 

“I am causing no trouble, monsieur. I am simply here to hear him speak. I ask you to please leave my table.”

Grantaire felt an insatiable anger rising in his chest, and the uneasy feeling of mistrust seemed to grow tenfold from the dismissive explanation. He leaned toward the man in what he hoped was a menacing manner, looking him straight in the eyes.

“I ask you again: why are you watching him?” Grantaire gritted, his eyes narrowing into slits. 

“For the same reason you do. Your friend is beautiful,” the man said lowly, shooting Grantaire a smug look that he did not like at all. 

“Stop watching him.”

“You have no right,” the man answered simply. 

He followed the man’s eyes. Locked on Enjolras. They were not fixed on his face, but on his hands, on a small clay pitcher beside him. What was that there for? Had that been there before they got there?

Why would he watch a pitcher?

“Monsieur,” Grantaire began defiantly, forcing the man’s gaze to leave Enjolras, but they were interrupted from a small noise in the corner. 

Courfeyrac was coughing. Enjolras motioned to the pitcher, picked it up, and passed it to Courfeyrac.

Grantaire turned his stare back to the man. The man’s eyes had changed. They sparked. They followed the pitcher. He had risen slightly from his seat and would not take his eyes off of the students in the corner.

Something was wrong with that pitcher. 

It was a guess, a blind guess. Something was wrong, and he was not going to take any chances. 

Poison. Enjolras. This man. Trying to poison Enjolras. Pitcher.

Grantaire could barely contain the rush of emotions that seized his heart at that moment, and he felt himself yell something out before his breathing began to grow heavy and his mouth contorted into a grimace of pure rage. Blind fury welled up inside of him. It felt as though his entire body was aflame, his blood running with the fierce fire of anger, ripping through his veins like lightning. It was a strange sensation that he was barely aware he wasn’t in control of until his fist came in contact with a hard body, then the second, and he heard a pained roar. An attempt to throw him off was averted, and he forced the man to the ground, pinning him there with his legs, and gave another shout to no one in particular. His limbs moved without thought, tearing at the man, not knowing or caring what he was doing.

Uppercut. Blood. Nose. Broken. Ribs. Crushed. Courfeyrac. Pitcher. Poison. Courfeyrac!

The realization was delayed, but it hit him like a bayonet between the eyes. Courfeyrac had just taken a drink from that pitcher, hadn’t he?

“Merde!!” Grantaire yelled, dropping the man immediately. He lay stupefied on the floor, raspy little noises emitting from a bleeding mouth. The barmaid had shuffled over, shrieking, and a crowd of patrons had started to gather. 

Ignoring the commotion, he rushed over to his friends, who were staring open-mouthed and horrified at him, having just witnessed him beating the random man in the corner into a groaning pile of blood and bruises on the floor. Combeferre looked angry. Enjolras’s cheeks were flushed pink as he gasped in shock, his blue eyes wide and questioning.

“Grantaire, what on earth—

“Move! Move! Move!” he shouted, shoving Combeferre aside roughly, his heart racing. “Courfeyrac!”

“Grantaire, what—?!”

He grabbed the stunned Courfeyrac around the waist and dragged him toward the dark hallway in the back of the café, pushing him forward as quickly as he would walk without tripping.

“Have to get you out—did you drink??” he breathed hysterically, throwing the door to the long stone hallway open and pulling Courfeyrac inside. Courfeyrac yanked his arm away and took a step back from Grantaire, his eyes wide and frightened at his friend’s behavior.

“What are you talking about? Are you drunk? Grantaire, what the hell did you do to that man over there?! Are you quite mad??”

Grantaire wasn’t listening. He grabbed Courfeyrac by the wrist again, tighter this time, and broke into a run, dragging the confused young thing after him. He ignored the obvious cries of pain when he knew he was gripping him too hard and yanked him harder when he felt him try to pull away, thinking only of whether he’d be able to get him to help before any sort of toxin took hold of his body.

“Must get you out. Get you to help. No, no, not out, no time to get out! Here! Down! Kneel down!” 

He was shouting half to himself, but he forced Courfeyrac to the ground and grabbed his face with both hands, looking wildly into his eyes. Still focused, no sign of confusion or blurred vision.

“What the hell are you doing with me, Grantaire?” Courfeyrac demanded, his voice cracking. By the sound of his voice and the look on his face, he was more than a little put off by this strange, rough behavior and the wild frenzy that Grantaire had suddenly worked himself into.

“Are you alright? Do you feel alright? Courfeyrac?”

“I feel perfectly fine, Grantaire. What did that man back there do to you?”

“Vomit. Now. Please, you need to—”

“What!? Vom—what is wrong with you?!”

“You were coughing—Enjolras gave you that water—that man—

Courfeyrac’s expression softened as he watched Grantaire stutter before him, his hands clutching his shoulders as though he would lose him if he let him go. Grantaire was worried. That much was plain. 

“You aren’t yourself, Grantaire,” Courfeyrac declared, as concerned for his friend as Grantaire seemed to be for him. He shook his shoulders free of Grantaire’s grip.   
“I’m going to go get Enjolras and Combeferre and see what’s happened to that man you just leveled. Stay here.” 

Grantaire let out a squeal of frustration and Courfeyrac turned to go back to their friends, but he had hardly gone ten steps before he suddenly dropped to his knees, doubling over with a cry of pain that hardly sounded human. Grantaire’s eyes grew wide. 

“Courfeyrac!”

Courfeyrac was completely winded, clutching his stomach and chest with increasing panic. His shoulders were shaking. Grantaire watched as his face grew from flushed pink, to grey, to ashy-white, all in a matter of seconds.

“What’s—what’s wrong with me?!” he trembled frantically. Grantaire quickly grabbed him around the shoulders, forcing his head forward. 

“Hold still.” 

Ignoring Courfeyrac’s violent struggling and protests, he thrust his fingers into his mouth and pressed at the back of his tongue, enduring the assault of his stunned friend’s sharp teeth until Courfeyrac began to gag, finally heaving and vomiting onto the floor. He sunk back to his knees, his hands once again clutching at his stomach. Grantaire watched his mouth shaping small, desperate “o”s, but no sound was coming out. Courfeyrac squeezed his eyes shut and breathed heavily. 

“What’s—wrong with—me?” he gasped, turning to Grantaire with a look of terror. Grantaire shook his head.

“Don’t know, Courfeyrac. Poison. That man, I think, that pitcher…the water…you drank…I think poison. You need to vomit again.”

“No—!”

Dragging his head back, he forced his hands into Courfeyrac’s mouth once more, earning himself another hard bite on his hand.

“Stop it, Grantaire!” 

“I’m trying to help you, you bastard!” 

Help, apparently, wasn’t necessary. Courfeyrac’s eyes flashed with a momentary spark of anger, but they were soon clouded with nausea and he doubled over again, spilling more bile onto the floor. He lifted his head, coughing and sputtering miserably. His shoulders were heaving, his eyes were watering, and he couldn’t catch his breath. Grantaire moved cautiously toward him, relieved when his friend reached out to him. His shaking hands grabbed at his shirt, and he leaned his head against Grantaire’s body, relaxing slightly into his warmth. The peace was short-lived, however—he was hardly able to choke out a warning to Grantaire before he was heaving all over the floor again, his body spasming against the sharp pains in his stomach.

To be honest, Grantaire felt sick to his stomach as well, and not just because of the vomit.

“S-sorry,” Courfeyrac choked tearfully, wiping at his chin ineffectively with the back of his wrist. “I’ve gotten vomit all over you.”

Grantaire shook his head and rubbed his friend’s back reassuringly. 

“Quite alright, Courfeyrac. I delight in the nectar of Dionysus; I am used to a little vomit therefore.”

His quip forced a small smile from Courfeyrac, but his face quickly fell as another wave of nausea overcame him and he once again emptied the clearish contents of his stomach onto the floor. When he was spent, he knelt gasping and spitting fruitlessly, rasping out something that sounded like another ‘sorry’. Grantaire, filled with pity, fitted his arms under Courfeyrac’s and lifted him slightly, laying his friend’s head against his shoulder and shushing him gently. Courfeyrac relaxed for a moment, but his breathing had not calmed much and his face soon twisted into a grimace of pain. His body was starting to shake violently and his head lolled from side to side on Grantaire’s shoulder, earning him a frantic shake from Grantaire.

“Courfeyrac?!”

He turned his head to try to look Grantaire in the eyes, but his own eyes were unfocused and blurred by tears. Little gagging sounds came from his open mouth as he started to choke on the mucus left in his throat, gasping for breath and clutching at Grantaire’s hand frantically. Grantaire’s heart began to race, but panicking, he told himself over and over, would do nothing to help the suffering of the poor thing writhing against his chest. He quickly tipped Courfeyrac’s head forward again, reaching his fingers back into his mouth to see if he could force his friend to expel any more of the horrid toxin, but Courfeyrac jerked back in pain and nearly bit down on him, finally reaching up and dragging Grantaire’s hand away from his face.

“Stop—it hurts! My mouth—!” he sobbed.

“What about your mouth?”

“It—hurts! God—it hurts!”

He sounded like he was in agony, and worry once more flooded Grantaire’s mind. 

“Show me,” Grantaire demanded, grasping his friend’s hand tightly. Courfeyrac managed to turn to him just long enough to open his mouth fully before curling back in on himself and spitting out some more pink-tinged mucus. Grantaire bit back a cry of frustration and pity. His mouth and tongue had broken out into small red blisters, a side effect of the toxin, no doubt, and irritated by the constant spitting and bile.

He looked at the young man kneeling as though he were folded at the stomach, eyes squeezed shut, flushed face turned to the ground and open mouth dripping saliva, and Grantaire decided he had never felt so sorry for someone in his entire life. Lively, strong, stormy-eyed Courfeyrac brought to this, Enjolras’s companion brought low, bosom-friend of mighty Apollo, thrown to Earth. And worse yet, he did not know what more he could do to help him. 

Swallowing bitterly, Grantaire pulled him close and pressed his face to his chest, rocking him back and forth gently.

“Courfeyrac. Shhh. I’ve got you. R’s got you.”

“D-do not make me vomit again, please Grantaire,” he cried softly, curling his hands into Grantaire’s shirt and tugging him closer. His shirt grew damp with sweat and saliva, but Grantaire simply smoothed his dark hair back and rested his chin atop his head. 

“Shh. I will not do it again. You’ve got nothing left in you, anyway.”

All they could do was wait. And so they did. Grantaire did not loosen his grip on Courfeyrac’s trembling body. He purged every thought from his mind. It was as though he had fallen into a daze—he focused only on the warmth of the trembling body in his arms, he listened intently to the ragged, open-mouthed breathing coming from his friend, but other than the labored gasps, he made no noise. Every now and then a horrendous mucus-filled cough, a softly whimpered “sick”, a low, pained sob, but nothing else. Grantaire wasn’t sure how long they’d been there—a minute, an hour, eternity. He didn’t care and he didn’t dare move.

After what felt like hours cradling his friend, feeling as though he were floating in some distant reality with no thoughts at all, he realized that Courfeyrac had gone still. Deathly still. Grantaire froze. He held his breath as thoughts returned to his mind, again in the form of silent panic. He wanted Courfeyrac to move. He would have shaken him, to feel any movement in his friend’s body, but Grantaire was paralyzed with fear. Please, Courfeyrac. I’m afraid to look at you. Afraid to move. Please move.

At last Courfeyrac stirred, forcing out a few muffled words into Grantaire’s shirt, which was still balled tightly in his hands. 

“I’m so glad you aren’t Joly.”

Grantaire breathed an audible sigh of relief and smiled into Courfeyrac’s sweaty curls, squeezing him closer. His eyes felt wet with tears he hadn’t even realized were there.

“God forbid an actual doctor took care of you.”

A small, weak chuckle, and Courfeyrac’s head moved under Grantaire’s chin. He sighed quietly. 

“This will definitely find you some favor with Enjolras, taking care of me like this.”

Grantaire laughed sullenly. Not likely. It sounded like Courfeyrac was feeling a bit better, at least. 

“We shall see.”

“It was probably meant for him,” Courfeyrac rasped out, turning his head to look up at Grantaire. Grantaire winced upon seeing the ugly red blisters glaring back at him. He wanted to soothe them away with his fingers, but he dared not move to touch them in fear that it would cause Courfeyrac pain, or cause him to get bitten again. “The poison, I mean.”

“Yes, I…I think it was.”

“I saved your Apollo, then,” he laughed. Grantaire forced himself to smile. It was good to hear Courfeyrac laugh. Courfeyrac was always teasing him about his admiration of Enjolras, but something about the circumstance they found themselves in made Grantaire want to sit in a dark, cold corner and drink himself to tears. He didn’t want to think about Enjolras in this situation. He didn’t want to believe that someone had tried to harm his idol. Not that harming Courfeyrac was any better. He drew a deep, shuddering breath.

“Oh, Courfeyrac, I couldn’t have.”

“Couldn’t have what?”

Grantaire realized he had not spoken anything aloud. He ran a finger down his friend’s sweaty face, from his temple to his chin, softly brushing over one of the hot, red blisters.

“Lived without him.” 

Courfeyrac blinked and turned into his chest again, silently processing what Grantaire had said. Grantaire sighed tiredly. This conversation was awkward, and he wasn’t sure either of them were in any state to be talking about his indescribable passion for Enjolras. Courfeyrac made a dry heaving noise as though he might vomit again, but Grantaire tightened his grip around him, shushing him, and he soon relaxed, quietly humming into Grantaire’s shirt. 

“I think it’s about time we bring you somewhere more comfortable and not cold and damp, huh?”

Proud of his excuse to change the subject, Grantaire moved to lift his young invalid from his lap, but Courfeyrac pressed a hand to his chest to stop him, curling closer to him again. 

“Not yet. You are warm and soft and I still feel like I’m dying.”

Grantaire nodded, but whispered into his hair, “You are not dying anymore.”

They were quiet, aside from Courfeyrac’s wheezing every now and then. Grantaire could tell he was still thinking. 

“You truly do love him, don’t you?” Courfeyrac asked quietly after a minute, pausing to cough into Grantaire’s shirt, at which his friend patted his hair affectionately. “More than just an obsession.”

“An obsession?” Grantaire whispered, shaking his head. “He is my life.”

Courfeyrac was looking at him, watching his features intently, and Grantaire wasn’t sure he liked it. He still looked dazed and sick and absolutely awful, but there was something alert and scrutinizing in his friend’s expression and he felt oddly exposed.

“Never mind, Courfeyrac. Let us not talk about it right now.” 

That mischievous glint was back in his eyes, thank god. That stormy, cocky, friendly spark that was uniquely Courfeyrac. 

“Well, Grantaire, your kindness gives me no choice. I concede. I give you leave to love him.”

He snorted, lightly mussing Courfeyrac’s hair. As if he needed his permission. Enjolras had two very possessive friends, after all. 

Speaking of Enjolras, where was he? Where was Combeferre, or anyone? Why had no one come to find them? He’d left that man with them without informing them of his treachery, what he had done, why Grantaire had left him bloody and gawking stupidly on the floor of the café. His friends had no idea where—why—he had dragged Courfeyrac away with him. 

“Courfeyrac,” he said worriedly, turning him gently over in his arms until he was looking at his face. “They haven’t come to find us.”

Courfeyrac swallowed, squeezing his eyes shut when he did so—it was still painful for him.

“I actually was just wondering that. You did drag me away with no explanation after beating some man to a pulp. I would have expected them to come looking. You think they are alright?”

Grantaire nodded, but then shook his head, taking a deep breath, fingers entwining around Courfeyrac’s sweaty hands. He felt his friend press a hot, shaking kiss to his cheek.

“…I don’t know, Courfeyrac.”


End file.
